A tragic week of family and fortune
persuades me
to leave trouble’s sword at the garden gate.
I descend carefully
down the small, steep, stone steps
that moor the creek to the hillside,
sheltered by green, vine maples,
engulfed in stream songs
and a fluttering mist of light.
The fragrance of grace
is so overpowering
that I forget the dark histories
that typically bully me
into sealing the lid on life.
Instead, buoyed by awe,
I focus on the path,
attending to prevent tumbling.
Never again will I underestimate
the power of beauty.